


Deviltown is Colder in the Summertime

by Zyzzyva



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Afterlife, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, TommyInnit-centric, Villain Wilbur Soot, let's go posting before canon changes again /j
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:12:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29886453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zyzzyva/pseuds/Zyzzyva
Summary: Four men reconvene in the afterlife, and all is not as it seems.OR: Tommy is confused, Wilbur is crazy, Schlatt is tired, and Mexican Dream is Mexican Dream.
Relationships: Jschlatt & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Mexican Dream, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 7
Kudos: 82





	Deviltown is Colder in the Summertime

**Author's Note:**

> alright!! let's fucking go, tommy's stream actually killed me.
> 
> not sure how many chapters there'll be, but probably only a few spanning the month+ tommy spent in the afterlife.
> 
> title comes from devil town by cavetown :)
> 
> tws for this chapter: manipulation, alcohol/drug use.

Tommy isn’t quite sure what he expected from the afterlife.

Jack never said much about it. Tommy knew he’d come back, but any time Tommy mentioned it Jack would immediately shift the subject, clutch his jacket tighter, transition to laughing about it and flick his gaze away in the exact same way Tommy does, so they’ve never talked about it. He’s only ever mentioned it as hell, but Tommy always tried to tell himself _he_ wouldn’t end up in hell, even if he didn’t know what other options there were.

But Wilbur said he was happy there, so it couldn’t be too bad, right?

* * *

He opens his eyes and sees nothing, at first. He’s still hurting, head pounding and ribs aching in time with his heartbeat, but it’s faded, just a bit of buzz in the background, and he can push it aside in favor of figuring out where the fuck he is.

He looks around. It’s a train station, but everything seems so strange, so slightly off. everything seems bathed in reds and grays, like a filter on his vision. He finds himself sitting on a bench, and with a sigh he heaves himself off it, starts to move.

It seems empty, and as he’s going he picks up what seems to be a beer can, throws it down and kicks it along as he’s walking. He climbs a staircase and just finds another set of trains hurtling by.

He hears a breath behind him and whirls around to find nothing. He tenses.

“Tommy?”

Oh. He tries, desperately, to stop himself from tearing up. It’s not much help.

He turns, and there he is.

Wilbur looks the same as when he died; same coat, same bloodstain, same expression. He stretches out his arms, and Tommy barrels into them, is enveloped in a hug he hadn’t thought he’d feel again for a long, long time.

“Oh, Tommy,” Wilbur whispers, and Tommy _wails_. They sink to the floor, Wilbur's coat draping around them both.

* * *

Tommy’s not sure how long they stay like that, on the floor, but when they climb to their feet Wilbur gives him a smile and leads him onto the train. Once in, they climb between cars, though he seems to know where they’re going.

It’s only a matter of time until Tommy starts asking questions.

“Where are we going?”

“To see the others,” Wilbur answers as they walk, not looking back.

He’d nearly forgotten.

Schlatt. Mexican Dream.

He wonders what they’ll be like. Will Mexican Dream be the same? will _Schlatt_ be the same?

He debates asking, but he still can’t get the memory of maniacal speeches and _let’s be the villains_ out of his head, and he still can’t even be sure whether he can trust Wilbur.

He wants to. He wants his brother back, and so far he seems close enough to the Wilbur he knew, but the outfit brings back things he doesn’t quite want to remember.

He shivers.

Once he pulls himself out of his head, he can hear, faintly, a voice in the distance. Wilbur lets out a laugh in triumph as he flings open the final door.

“Schlatt!” he exclaims, and Tommy's faced with a man he’d honestly hoped he’d never see again.

Schlatt, for his part, looks exactly the same, too. Same disheveled shirt, missing tie. Same bloodstain dripping from the corner of his mouth and same unkempt hair and horns.

Same bottle in his hand.

Tommy had really, really hoped there wouldn’t be substances in the afterlife.

Schlatt drops the book he was holding on the train seat and stands, locking eyes with Tommy.

“What the fuck,” he exclaims. “How the fuck did that happen?”

“Tommy?” another voice calls, and Mexican Dream’s in front of him, inspecting him all over and prodding at his injuries. “What the hell happened to you, man?”

“Uh,” Tommy says, unsure with all the attention. He backs up, a bit, hitting Wilbur, and Wilbur leads him a seat and sits him down.

“Take your time,” he says, effectively shutting down the other two. “You just died, after all.”

Tommy chuckles ruefully, waving him off. “It’s ok.”

He turns to the others. “It was Dream.”

Schlatt’s eyes widen, just a little, and he continues.

“He fucking beat me to death in prison.” He tries very hard not to think too much about it.

“Why were you in prison?” Wilbur asks tentatively, but Tommy can still parse the interest in his voice.

“I went to visit him, and there was this explosion outside. And Sam said he couldn’t let me out because it was against protocol, or some shit. So I just had to stay in there, and Dream got angry.”

Wilbur’s expression pinches. “What a dick.”

Tommy can’t tell whether he means Sam or Dream, or what he’s supposed to say, but luckily Schlatt interrupts.

“Well, welcome to hell, kid,” he says, waving around the train car and spilling the bottle in his hand. He doesn’t seem to realize. “An infinite trip to fucking nowhere.”

“Well, we don’t know that,” Wilbur says pleasantly. “We could still be heading to our salvation.”

“I’ve put up with your shit too long for this to be a fucking trip to salvation,” Schlatt mutters, takes another swig.

He fixes Tommy in the eye, gaze surprisingly clear. “How long have we been here?”

“Um… four months? Maybe?”

Schlatt lets out a triumphant laugh that turns into a cough. “I fucking knew. I fucking told you.”

“Time moves differently, here,” Mexican Dream explains. Wilbur cuts him off.

“It’s been around eight years,” Wilbur continues.

“Eight years, nine months, eleven days,” Schlatt rattles off exhaustedly. He heaves himself to his feet and looks to Mexican Dream, who stands to follow him.

Wilbur looks incensed, stands.

“You’re gonna go get fucking high when he’s just died?” he demands.

“Oh, fuck off,” schlatt spits, and they leave. Mexican Dream waves at Tommy before the door shuts behind them, and Tommy returns it.

Wilbur seems to wilt.

“I’m sorry about them, Tommy,” he says quietly, confidentially. “They haven’t changed all that much.”

Tommy looks to the door. He almost wants to go after them, wants to see how they’re doing, but he has to catch up with Wilbur first.

“What’s it been like?” he asks, and Wilbur sighs, gestures vaguely to the door.

“Just this. They haven’t much slowed down.” He lowers his voice. “Think Schlatt’s been hitting the hard stuff again.”

Tommy bites his lip. He clenches his fists in his lap, realizing he’s still shaking. Wilbur notices, clasps his hand over them, and Tommy melts again, lets Wilbur wrap his arms around him.

“I missed you so much,” Wilbur whispers. “I wish we hadn’t met like this, not this soon, but all the same, I’m kind of glad. Is that wrong?”

Tommy shakes his head against Wilbur's shoulder. He smells the same, a mixture of smoke and pine, and he can’t believe how much he missed his brother. He clings onto Wilbur's coat the same way he did when they were first in Pogtopia, when Tommy would have nightmares about their exile.

He can’t believe he ever thought Wilbur would still be awful.

* * *

He doesn’t see either Schlatt or Mexican Dream for a couple days after that, mostly sticking by Wilbur's side. It’s when he ventures a couple cars, has to clear his head from the smoke of Wilbur's cigarettes, that he finds them again.

He’s just closed the door, making sure to seal it against the smell, and he turns, walks right into Schlatt.

He stumbles back, and hears the distinct sound of a bottle shattering and a “ _fuck_!”, cringes.

“I’m so sorry,” he stammers quickly, old habits dying slowly, but Schlatt just sighs, waves him off. His hand’s shaking, badly.

“It’s fine, whatever, I’ll just get another one,” he says. Tommy peers at the carpet, nose crinkling at the smell.

Oh. That’s not booze. Wilbur was right.

“Where the fuck did you get potions?” he asks, and Schlatt shrugs.

“They’re around here.” He catches Tommy's eye, narrows his own. “You’re not looking for them, right?”

“What?” he stammers, chuckles. “Fucking obviously not. I’m very much a child, you know.”

Schlatt throws back his head, laughs. “Good. I was younger than you.”

He waves Tommy along, and they start walking. He’s stumbling, just a bit, and Tommy has to keep catching his arm to stop him from falling, but it doesn’t seem to bother him.

“That’s not something to be proud of,” he says, and Schlatt grins, but there’s nothing happy about it.

“I know, I know. I started then, and look where it fucking got me.” He gestures at the train car.

He stops. “I mean, I guess you’re here too.”

“Those are very different things,” Tommy says indignantly. “You fucking died ‘cause of it.”

Schlatt finds the cabinet he was looking for, pulls out another bottle. “well, I can’t fucking die twice.”

He crashes in a dining booth, and Tommy sits across from him.

“You know, some people might see it as a wake-up call, dying from this shit.”

Schlatt chuckles.

“If it’s hard to quit while you’re alive-” He stops to take a swig. “It’s harder when you’re dead. You get allll the rewards, and none of the hard parts.”

He counts off on his fingers. “You don’t have to deal with withdrawal, you don’t have to deal with Quackity yelling your head off.”

He leans forward, whispers conspiratorily. Tommy can smell the blaze powder on his breath. “And you don’t have to listen to Wilbur being fucking batshit.”

Tommy frowns, and Schlatt grins.

“But you don’t know about that, right? You think he’s all magically right in the head again? No fucking way. You think he gets to escape from being a fucking piece of shit, you think he gets to come to his senses? Nope, nope.”

He throws his head back, cackles. Tommy suddenly feels very strongly like he wants to leave this conversation. He doesn’t want to listen to this.

“Wilbur's my brother,” he snaps. “I think I’d know if he was acting weird.”

Schlatt’s voice has gone near hysterical. He’s slurring to the point where Tommy has to focus on his words if he wants to understand. “No, no, you don’t get to tell me that. You don’t get to appear here and tell me you know everything. I’ve been here, I’ve dealt with him for eight fucking years, I know what he’s like and I know he’s a fucked up asshole with a god complex. You don’t get to tell me what he’s like, you don’t know him.”

“And you do?” Tommy snaps.

“Maybe not. But the cracks’ll show soon, ok? Ok?” He leans back in the booth, covers his face with his hands. Tommy waits for him to say something more but after a few seconds, he puts his head down on the table, rests it on an arm.

His eyelids flutter, eyes rolling back. “I’m not your enemy, Tommy.”

Tommy sighs, plucks the bottle from his hand. He’s already passed out.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! please check out my other fics!
> 
> here's my [ ko-fi ](https://yaoyoyoyo.tumblr.com/post/623129308189327360/i-just-finished-setting-up-a-ko-fi-please-check)!  
> here's my [ information on writing commissions ](https://yaoyoyoyo.tumblr.com/post/631112745941712896/hello-ive-finally-decided-to-officially-open)!  
> here's my [ tumblr ](https://anyaskers.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> let me know if any of the links break, and i'll do my best to fix them!  
> please leave some comments, and i'm always, always open to constructive criticism :).


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